


A Rose's Thorns

by ClaireBlueSkies



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, He's a bit of a shut-in, I have plans for a bee allergy, Light Angst, Lonely Victor Nikiforov, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Retired Victor Nikiforov, awkward to lovers, bc Yuuri and I are anxious beans, estate - Freeform, garden au, gardener Yuuri, gardener au, maybe a little weird, this is pretty light-hearted and fun!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:48:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireBlueSkies/pseuds/ClaireBlueSkies
Summary: The Nikiforov Estate is lush, but overgrown when Yuuri arrives to begin work as a gardener there. The vines are crawling up the brick and blocking the sunlight from the windows, and from the eccentric man who hides within the quiet of the property. Yuuri finds himself wishing to dig him out, regardless of the thorns that muddle that path forward.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 27
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm starting something new! I wanted to do pretty short separate but connected stories as Victor and Yuuri develop their relationship, usually having to do with gardening <3 I hope you enjoy! If you have suggestions, ideas or requests send em my way!

The walkway was lined with overgrown blue roses. Blue! Yuuri had never seen anything like it. The cool morning light filtered through the rain-collecting petals, highlighting deep blue veins and pale velvety softness. He delicately let his fingers run across them with his free hand as he stepped up the walk to a dark wood door inlaid with frosted glass; no light filtered through to suggest the presence of an occupant. Yuuri wiped his hand self-consciously on his faded corduroy trousers and checked his watch, lifting his messenger bag higher on his shoulder with the other. The clanking of tools echoed between the damp trees with the bird calls for a moment. He lifted his fist to knock.

_Bork!_

Yuuri’s Doggo Senses went on red alert, and he whipped around, cheeks already puffing into a smile. The lush grandeur of the estate he had been called to fell from his mind entirely as he dropped his bag and kneeled in a puddle with an _oof_ just in time to get a large armful of fluffy brown poodle — _wet and muddy_ fluffy brown poodle, he should add. He laughed happily, thoughtlessly, as his garden clothes became as messy in a moment as they would be by the end of a hard day’s work. 

With one last lick on his chin, the poodle turned around and trotted back to a pair of equally muddy leather oxfords and denim pants — or rather, the man in them. 

Yuuri found his mind’s eye filled suddenly with blooming blue roses as his gaze met the wide, crystal ocean eyes of who he presumed was the owner of the Nikiforov estate, and his potential employer.

( _Not ocean,_ Yuuri corrected himself. More lake a mountain lake: deceptively still, teeming with life, dangerously deep.)

The man was absolutely covered in mud and burrs, and yet Yuuri thought it rather suited him—like a fae, playful and carefree (although his expression tended more towards _sheepish_ ). His hair was cut in a bob, parted to the side and curling slightly at the ends where water dripped down the pale expanse of his neck, soaking into his turtleneck.

“Um,” the man said.

The two of them, dog and master, looked at Yuuri like _he_ was the oddity here, and Yuuri had the inexplicable urge to giggle and pinch their cheeks.

Yuuri cleared his throat and gave his head a small shake to clear his thoughts, hoisted himself to his feet. He gave a short bow, sticking a hand out to shake. “Hello! Mr. Nikiforov, I presume? My name is-” was all he got out before being unceremoniously cut off by a wet sneeze.

Yuuri blinked.

 _Right,_ he thought to himself. _First things first._

* * *

Victor Nikiforov _(“Please, call me Victor!”)_ was the man’s name, although he introduced his dog before himself (Makkachin Nikiforov), and sneezed twice more before he even got that much out.

Yuuri sent him and Makkachin upstairs for a warm bath right away, toeing off his own shoes out of habit, setting his bag down and waving away Victor’s offer for a change of clothes. Victor was a flurry, Yuuri quickly learned, dynamic and charming, moving with a dancer’s precision and careful posture and smile even as sodden as he was. His wet socks squelched on the marble stairs and he called down faint apologies as he pattered up to the second, then the third floor.

Yuuri was left alone again, with morning light beaming stripes through the mostly closed curtains, highlighting dust motes and the sudden silence both. The windows were closed, and the birdsong muted; the floors between him and his host snuffed out any traveling sound and he felt oddly lonely in the wake of Victor’s presence. The air was heavy.

 _How must it feel to live here alone,_ Yuuri wondered idly as he stepped away from the entryway cautiously and took in the space for the first time. To the left was the doorway to a kitchen space that stretched further than he could see from his position, and to the right the foyer opened up into a living area with plush velvet seating and a fireplace at its center where he supposed most people would have a television. Straight ahead was a grand curling staircase. He felt as if he could have stepped into any year in the past century, with the only modern amenities being the light fixtures. The estate was a time capsule in the way a butterfly was pinned to a board: careful, preserved, melancholy.

A few minutes of quiet later, Makkachin came downstairs, draped in towels still lightly warm from the dryer and smelling like oatmeal soap. She traipsed straight to her (frankly, enormous) pile of plush dog toys by the fireplace and lay down with her belly towards its center where it would have emanated heat if it had been lit.

Yuuri was still standing shoeless in the middle of the room, shifting awkwardly on his feet as the cold marble seeped past his socks when Victor returned from upstairs. He was wrapped in what one would generally consider a ridiculously fluffy white bathrobe, but Yuuri thought made him look kingly. Once again, he gave Yuuri a look as if _he_ was the odd one, and spoke.

“What are doing standing there, Yuuri! Please, sit down!” He gestured with one hand into the sitting room where Makkachin was happily panting away and gnawing on a squeaky bone, running the other through his drying hair.

(As he passed by, Yuuri caught a whiff of again, oatmeal soap.

He wondered if Victor was using dog shampoo, or if Makkachin was using human shampoo.)

Victor forewent the plush seating entirely and sat down next to Makkachin on the floor, petting her newly clean fur like an eccentric Bond villain would his cat, but looking at Yuuri with a smile. Yuuri decided to just sit on the floor as well, keeping the mahogany coffee table between them as he fiddled with his hands in his lap.

Again, he felt as though Victor’s very presence soothed the house and brought it back down to earth. The fire was left untouched, but the air was warmer as he spoke.

“Well, that was an eventful morning.”

Yuuri looked up quickly. “Um, yes! Did you get caught in the rain?” he asked politely.

“Oh, no actually, we were out just after. I fell into a very large puddle, though.” Victor glared at Makkachin for a moment and she seemed to grin back. “It was very heroic, actually. I saved Makka from drowning. Or, I would have, if the water hadn’t been only a couple of feet deep. A misjudgment on my part.” He blinked, and a light pink blush worked its way up his cheekbones.

“Anyway! Enough about that. What do you want?” Victor looked at him expectantly.

Yuuri, who had just barely been following the conversation was shocked back to the present with a shiver of anxious nerves. What if this wasn’t even the right place? What if Victor was a serial killer? Honestly at this point, Yuuri would believe it.

“U-Uh, Madame Lilia? Baranovskaya? She requested that I meet with you about the possibility of becoming your gardener.”

Actually, her words had been, _“Get down there before the weeds grow over the front door and that boy has an excuse to never leave the house again!”_ relayed to Yuuri via Minako. The two former _primas_ were a frightening duo.

“Oh! Okay.”

Yuuri waited in case he had anything to add.

At his silence, Victor tacked on a jovial, “Thanks!”

And that was that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, unfortunately, Victor does not look like a swamp monster.

Yuuri returned the next day, per Victor’s request. Unfortunately, it had not rained and there were no puddles to speak of, and Victor answered the door neither drenched nor in a bathrobe. All of a sudden he looked like he belonged at the estate, a _Nikiforov_ rather than _Victor_ , and Yuuri felt more flustered around him than he had the previous day.

Victor was perfectly polite, perfectly gentlemanly, perfectly _perfect_ and Yuuri cowered in the face of it. In fact, when Victor answered the door and asked him in, he said, “No.”

Just “no,” he said, squatting down and pointing at a weed in the walkway, blabbering about the deterioration of the foundation and getting to work right then and there.

In the morning light of a sunny day, Victor’s blue eyes caught the yellow light and turned turquoise. His hair lay soft and wisped around his head in a halo and his clothes were made of cashmere and linen—even Makkachin seemed styled and poised, with a tiny bow in the hair above each floppy ear. Now, Yuuri’s clothes seemed inappropriate. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that this man at his worst was who Yuuri, someone who’s livelihood was literally dirt, related to most. When Victor finally closed the door and let him be, he sat back on his haunches and sighed into the air, wiping his fingers on the knees of his faded corduroys. Whatever kinship Yuuri had imagined yesterday slipped away as he dug his calloused hands in the earth and got to work.

…

Victor liked Yuuri. He was adorable and polite, Makka liked him, and he made Victor think of a Hobbit (not because he was particularly short—it was more of an aura). Just when he was ready to put his best foot forward, though, Yuuri seemed to shy away from him. This surprised Victor, because today he and Makkachin _didn’t_ look like swamp monsters, so why was Yuuri acting all nervous?

In the end Victor decided that a gardener was maybe like an artist, and Yuuri would feel better if he wasn’t being watched, so he nodded kindly as he babbled about weeds and lichen and allowed him to work in peace while retreating back into the shadows of the mansion. Every time he passed a window, however, he’d peek between the curtains to see what Yuuri was doing. Depending on which window he was at, he’d get a different view, and he may have spent more time in the first floor breakfast nook that morning than he had in the entire time he’d known he had a breakfast nook because it provided the best view of Yuuri’s bum.

A little after noon the sun reached its peak in the sky, and Victor saw Yuuri sitting and wiping the sweat from his brow, he decided to invite him into the air conditioning for some fresh, homemade lemonade. He garnished it with sprigs of lavender because he figured a gardener would appreciate that, and also because he read about it in _Cosmo_.

He set the tray on the same coffee table they had sat around yesterday, and Yuuri perched gingerly on the edge of the sofa, looking at his hands folded in his lap. Victor pursed his lips.

This wouldn’t do.

…

The hours had passed quickly for Yuuri once he began to really focus at the task at hand. By the time he stopped for a breather and took off his gardening gloves, the sun was high in the sky and burning at the back of his neck. That was the excuse he gave himself for accepting Victor’s invitation for lemonade in the sitting room.

He once again toed off his shoes at the entryway, pulling up his striped socks from where they’d slipped down his ankles. As he did, he got a close look at his hands; he had the hands of a gardener: they were calloused and scarred from thorns, with short nails and thick knuckles. Dirt seemed to set into each crease no matter how much he scrubbed. He folded them between his thighs and out of sight.

“So, Yuuri!” Victor started, plopping down _right next to him_ , despite the, frankly, _gigantic_ size of the fancy couch, sipping his lemonade. “Tell me about yourself!”

“Um,” Yuuri began eloquently, “alright?” He ran his thumbs over his knuckles in a nervous tic. “But there’s really not that much to tell?”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Yu _-uri_.”

To Yuuri’s horror, Victor reached out and held Yuuri’s hands between his own. He gasped on instinct, but neither pulled away nor could look away. He vaguely registered that Victor was still talking, but it was faded and far away.

The first thing he noticed was that Victor’s hands were cool and honestly a little clammy (although perhaps it was lotion—but Yuuri wouldn’t have been surprised to find out Victor smelled naturally like roses) where Yuuri’s were warm and always so dry. They were larger than Yuuri’s, pale and slender and almost like porcelain, feminine in the loveliest way. His fingers curved delicately around Yuuri’s and his thumbs had taken to tracing the lines that Yuuri’s own had moments before over his knuckles, although much more softly and kindly.

There was a stark difference between their skin tones, all the more visible when they were touching. Yuuri found it fascinating, their crisscrossing fingers like striations in the earth.

“…You see, my first lover was–”

Reality rudely faded back in as Yuuri finally registered what nonsense Victor was throwing at him and he snatched his hands back again with a squeak, effectively cutting Victor off mid-sentence. He finally looked up again to find Victor looking at him, head tilted like a scolded puppy, with a slight frown on his face as Yuuri stared back wide eyed and is actions caught up to his brain.

 _‘Oh, shit. I’m going to get so fired, and Minako is_ so _going to kill me.’_

“I’m so sorry! I jus- I wasn’t thinking!” He bowed quickly at the waist, almost knocking his nose on his knees. “I’m kind of- I’m a little self- my hands aren’t clean, so…” he finished lamely. They fisted tightly at his sides.

“No, my apologies Yuuri.” Yuuri sat up, blinking at him in surprise. Victor sat back on the couch a little so their thighs no longer touched. “Lilia is always telling me I have no boundaries; I suppose it’s just been a while so I’d forgotten.” Although more space separated them, the intensity of Victor’s gaze tethered them together and made the distance seem meaningless. There were a few beats as Victor contemplated Yuuri and Yuuri stared nervously back. “Although, I suppose I’ll never learn.” He reached out one perfect hand, palm up in invitation. “If I may?”

Yuuri was still for a moment before uncurling his fist and stiffly placing his hand in Victor’s.

Again, Victor held his hand softly, as if the battered thing was precious and fragile.

Then he let it go and started to take off his own shoes and socks.

At this point, Yuuri had had quite enough and was considering just bolting out the door, Minako be damned (although he took it back as soon as he thought it, just in case she could somehow hear him). He was a disaster, and he was honestly starting to believe maybe Victor was kind of a disaster too.

And that thought brought him up short.

Perhaps yesterday’s Victor and today’s were truly one and the same. Yuuri would be the last one to judge if they were.

By the time this occurred to him, Victor was already barefoot, placing one on top of the couch between them.

“Do you see?”

And Yuuri did: Victor’s foot was as calloused as Yuuri’s hands, the bones protruded oddly around his toes and seemed near-permanently bruised along the sides. The nails, though short and clipped, were broken and uneven.

“Those hands of yours show years of work and dedication—something to be proud of. It’s the same with my feet. They’ve treated me well, even with the battering I gave them in ballet and in skates on the ice. Recently I’ve been giving them a bit of break though, I suppose.” He let his foot fall to floor.

“I don’t know what you know of my career—although if you know Lilia, then I’m sure you’re at least aware of me—but I do not judge the evidence of devotion to your art.” With slower movements, he reached back for Yuuri’s hands, which he now gave willingly, although shyly. “This place is overgrown, and stagnant. All these tell me,” he squeezed his fingers, “is that you’re the one able to free it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm kind of making this up as I go :,) Anyway, they're cute n awkward n I love em


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A misfortune (for now).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pt. 1 of 2.   
> <3

As summer turned to fall, Yuuri would come into the house for a cup of tea rather than a glass of lemonade, but good conversation remained a constant. Victor took to sitting on the front step with Makkachin’s head on his knee, talking with Yuuri as he worked. It was peaceful, and Victor would wear thick sweaters to soften the bite of the wind, coming down to his upper thighs. Makkachin tucked her nose into a fold to keep warm, and Yuuri smiled to himself constantly, without even realizing he was doing it.

He became used to a certain feeling at the estate—something in the very air that was fresh and light and curled around them calmly. The closest thing Yuuri could think of was the rising steam of the _onsen_ back at the inn that dampened the stone walkways and infused the piles of towels Mari put out each morning. (Rather, the closest thing Yuuri could think of was _home_.)

So, on an evening that bit into the skin and promised morning frost the next day, when Yuuri’s car ran out of gas halfway to his apartment, he had two options: go forward, or go back.

There is a long stretch of dirt road leading up to the Nikiforov Estate, before it hits the paved driveway but after the turn-off from the highway, and that’s where Yuuri found himself stuck with a dead phone and lengthening shadows closing in. It was during that odd span of time in the season, during which afternoons were warm and evenings grew cold quickly, and as Yuuri climbed out of his car to survey his surroundings, the thin jacket he had on might as well have been made of paper. The trees around him rustled and swayed as he took steadying breaths, trying desperately to think clearly and cursing his old phone for having a shit battery.

He ducked back into his car just to escape the wind and lay his head on the wheel, eyes closed, as his leg bounced anxiously.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m fine…” he repeated quietly. But while his mouth formed the words, his brain was thinking _hypothermia, bear, ax murderer,_ and he was quickly losing control of whatever calm one could have in situations like these. _Charge your phone, idiot, check the gas tank, idiot, stupid stupid stupid._ He was embarrassed, he realized, of all things; if he died out here, it’d be his own goddamn fault. Mari, who taught him to drive over one hot summer a few years back would never let him live it down, that’s for sure. _Idiot._ Breathing out heavily through his mouth, he grabbed at the fabric on his chest and squeezed, trying to ground himself, feeling his heart jack-rabbiting under is knuckles.

…

_“’Can you hear my heartbeat?’”_

_Yuuri jumped and turned away from the photo on the mantle to find Victor back from the kitchen standing right behind him, tray of steaming mugs already set on the coffee table. It was of a slightly younger Victor, hair a bit longer than it was now and flowing in a ponytail that whipped around him mid-spin. It was a stunning image: even in the flurry of motion, the photographer had managed to capture Victor’s face perfectly, like the eye of the storm, eyes closed and brows pinched, corners of the mouth downturned just slightly._

_“That photo is from my last performance before I retired, about four years ago. The song is called “History Maker,” so the press assumed I was… bookending my career, I suppose.”_

_Yuuri’s gaze shifted to Victor as he spoke, eyes tracing the light crow’s feet forming, the laugh lines, then back to the photo._

_“But the reason I chose that song was for that first line: ‘Can you hear my heartbeat?’”_

_“Why?” Yuuri asked quietly._

_Victor’s eyes met his. “It’s… what I most need the answer to.”_

_…_

_As Yuuri lay in bed that night, all he could think of was that Victor said “need.” Present tense._

_Victor was still waiting for someone to answer._

_…_

In the end, the decision was an unconscious one, a pull towards his polar north; he practically fell out of his car and started half walking, half running back the way he came, as the sky grew ever-darker.

Yuuri wasn’t afraid of the forest, per se, or being alone in general. But there was an eerie sense of isolation that pulled at his skin and sucked out the air in his lungs, and his mind called out almost desperately for someone to find him _(Victor Victor Victor)._ It was getting colder, and he hurried forward, if only to warm himself up.

There was a sudden flash of lightening, and Yuuri nearly jumped out of skin, tripping over his own feet and skidding ungracefully to the dirt and gravel, scraping his chin and palms in the process. Thunder grumbled overhead and the first fat raindrops fell from the sky, and Yuuri allowed himself just a moment of self-pity with a sardonic (and partially hysterical) chuckle before pushing himself on his feet and back on his way.

_Stupid._

…

Makkachin bounded ahead as Victor walked lazily behind, gazing up at the moon peeking out from heavy rain clouds.

“Let’s go home, Makka!” he called, and she wagged her tail at him before rounding the bend out of his sight.

“Cheeky,” he muttered.

The rain was nearing torrential at this point and his back and the front of his legs were soaked where water gathered and dripped from the ends of his umbrella. He and Makkachin were looking at another bath when they made it home, and maybe a good cup of tea.

Yuuri had showed Victor which of the garden herbs made the best aromatic tea. He smiled to himself and felt a sudden warmth from the chill blooming in his chest. It had been the cutest thing: he’d run up to Victor sitting on the steps, beaming and pulling leaves and flowers from his pockets to place in Victor’s hand.

_“Look! I found these around the side of the house, under the library window. This is chamomile, and peppermint, and lemon balm. Here, come with me!”_

_He took Victor’s free hand and pulled him gently through the door and into the kitchen. At this point, Yuuri knew where the mugs were, and how the automatic water boiler worked, and Victor was intensely pleased that he seemed to feel so at home. It was odd, because it was everything he wanted, but absolutely not enough. Yuuri still left him at the end of each day, and Victor was left alone in this big, shiny kitchen he barely knew how to use, in this big, shiny house._

_“I’m going to steep a little of each for you to try, okay? You’ll be ruined for store-bought tea forever,” Yuuri laughed, pouring the hot water into the three prepared mugs. He turned around then and looked at Victor, as if to make sure he was still watching._

_(As if he could ever look away.)_

It was delicious; beyond that, in a way. It was a flowering of warmth that started in his stomach and chest simultaneously and wound together somewhere where he assumed his soul lived. He couldn’t be sure how much of that was the warm tea, and how much of that was Yuuri’s smile and bright eyes awaiting his reaction. Sitting on his counter now were three jars of dried herbs prepared for him by Yuuri, with the instruction to mix and match them to find his favorite combinations.

He was already dreaming of chamomile and lemon balm and a good book when the sound of Makka’s barking jerked him out of his thoughts, followed by a high whine.

“Makka? Let’s head home! Makkachin? Come!”

An eerie silence met his call.

The first tendril of nerves crept up his core as he speed-walked carefully over the wet gravel and around the bend she’d disappeared behind. It wasn’t like Makkachin to not come when called, and visibility was nearing zero with the rainfall and obscured moon.

“C’mere girl!”

He skidded around the bend and came up short to find Makkachin, tail wagging wildly, and…

“Yuuri?”

“V-Victor!” Yuuri was sopping wet from what Victor could see, and a tremor was audible in his voice as he called his name. He ran forward, and Victor found himself rushing forward to meet him, arms lifted to pull him in. Yuuri stopped just a moment before contact with a hand to the chest. “Sorry, I-I’ll get your c-coat messy. I-I-”

Victor pulled him into his chest and the tension bled out from them both in an instant, Makkachin bounding around their legs and barking at them happily. She was going to get _so_ many treats and pets when they got home.

“What are you doing out here?” Victor murmured quietly into his hair, just audible over the wind and rain. Yuuri stood silently for a minute, seeming to just breathe there.

“I… can we go ho- back to the house first, please? Sorry….”

“Of course, love, let’s go home.”

They began the trek back, bundled tightly together under Victor’s black umbrella. The rain pounded overhead, but even through that, he could hear Yuuri’s teeth chattering. He held Yuuri that much more tightly, and picked up the pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Part 2 is ongoing -- what shenanigans will our lovebugs get up to back at the house?  
> See you then! <3

**Author's Note:**

> message me your ideas or requests on [tumblr](https://supernovastare.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I made art of how Vitya looks with his bob hair!: [link](https://supernovastare.tumblr.com/post/623657064820031488/this-is-the-sketch-i-did-of-victor-from-the-fanfic)
> 
> You can shop Victuuri art and merch I've made here: [etsy](https://www.etsy.com/shop/studiospritzer/)


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